


Angel of the Annunciation

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, First Kiss, Lesbian Hannibal Lecter, Lesbian Will Graham, Murder, bookshop au, fem!Hannigram
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28340589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

"Did not one day a hind  
that rested in a wood, watchfully staring,  
feel her deep influence, and did it not  
conceive the unicorn, then, without pairing,  
the pure beast, beast which light begot?"

— "Annunciation to Mary", Rilke

"Will?" 

Beverly's voice, followed by knocking. 

"Will, you okay in there?" A moment of silence, then: "Come on, girl. I really need to pee."

A ruse, no doubt, designed to get Will to come out of her hiding spot. Will didn’t want to come out. The staff toilet in the back of the stock room was the farthest she could get from the front of the store — and the scene unfolding just beyond it, in the snow-covered square. 

Another knock, firmer now. Was someone with Beverly? A kind but stern-faced cop who just wanted to ask a few questions? 

Will let out a shaky sigh and looked down at her hands, still damp with sweat, still clutching the pages of the small leather-bound book open in her lap. The illustration on the last page gazed out at her: illuminated with red ink, familiar now in more ways than one. A map to madness. 

There was no hiding from the bonfire of chaos that the contents of the book and the scene in the square had conspired to ignite in Will’s head. 

She shut the book and shoved it in her apron pocket. Then, for the fifth time that day, she checked the sink for blood. Nothing. No sign of that morning's Lady Macbeth-level hand scrubbing. Not that it mattered. All the cops out there in the square, with their lights and their testing kits, would find what they needed to easily enough. 

Will nudged the door open and peered out. Beverly was alone, stood at the stock room's entrance with her back to Will. She had put on a pair of plastic reindeer antlers, a ridiculous piece of festive flair that for a moment sent Will back to the early hours of that morning, to the spectacle in the snow. The memory made her shudder.

“Come check this out,” Beverly said without turning. “The FBI are here and they've set up a massive forensic tent. It covers the whole bandstand!"

Will could hear the excitement in her colleague's voice. She crossed the stock room, grabbing on to boxes and chairs along the way to make sure her legs would hold her. Across the store, through the windows, she could just see the tent that had replaced the makeshift screens set up earlier by the city PD.

"Anyone tell us what happened yet?"

"Nope. Though they did tell Alana we're fine to stay open." Beverly turned to look at Will and frowned. "Hey. You sure you're okay? You were in there for a while. We were getting worried.”

Will remembered her reflection in the bathroom mirror: pale, shirt plastered in places with cold sweat. A hairline fracture away from falling apart. She tried for a smile. She probably looked demented.

"Fine, thanks. Just—"  
  
Beverly put a hand on her shoulder. "Is this whole thing freaking you out? I’m sure if you asked Alana, she'd let you go home."

Will shook her head. Going home would be so much worse. Shifty. Suspicious. 

"I'm okay, really. Is anyone coming in to interview us? You know, to ask if we saw anything?"

Beverly eyed her for a moment. "Don't know. It's not like any of us got to see the body. But if they do, I'm going to ask if they need any help in that tent. I mean, I am graduating next year..."

Strategic peeing forgotten, Beverly headed back into the store. Will trailed reluctantly behind.

Dante’s Quill had been busier than normal all morning, but now was practically heaving. Most people were at least pretending to browse, but the blissful silence Will so treasured about her place of work had been replaced by a cacophony of excited mutterings. 

On her way to the checkout counter, Will took a swerve into the "Rare and Vintage" section. When she was sure no one was watching, she drew the book from her apron. It was still real, still solid. She hadn't imagined it, or its contents. She held in for a moment, thumb skimming over the gilded letters swirling on the cover:  
  


_"Salvatore dell'Annunziata"_

  
No author. No date. Will stretched up and shoved the book in the back of a top shelf — the same place she had found it two weeks before. 

Near the entrance, she spotted Alana doing what she had been all morning: directing busybodies to the police representative posted out in the square. Her polite smile was wearing thin. 

"They just won't stop coming," Beverly said. "You'd think Christmas spirit would make people steer clear of active crime scenes."

Will didn't say anything. Her eyes kept flicking to the storefront. Through the cut-out snowflakes and Santas dotting the glass, she could see the flood lights glowing in the FBI's tent, the determined silhouettes moving inside. Men and women in uniforms and plain clothes alike filed in and out of the tent to make phone calls, to carry black plastic bags into unmarked vans. A small group in FBI jackets gathered around a man in an old fashioned hat, who seemed to be pointing at the buildings flanking the square. When the man pointed at the bookshop, Will felt a single bead of sweat trickle down the back of her neck. 

Behind the counter, Beverly got to work unboxing the latest best-sellers while Will tried to concentrate on ringing up the next customer. The guy barely acknowledged her, staring at the scene outside. He got his Tom Clancy novel and moved out of the way to reveal a shock of red curls spilling from a hot pink beret, and a pink houndstooth coat. 

Will nearly groaned. “Lounds. Morning.”

"Graham!" Freddie Lounds sounded positively chipper.

"How did you get past Alana in that cunning disguise?" Will asked. "Because I know you're not here to buy books."  
  
Freddie scrunched her nose. "What disguise? And as it happens I’m here to buy a biography of Harold Shipman."

She was actually buying one. Will yanked it from her hands and scanned the tag. 

"Christmas present?"

"Yeah, for my grandma."

"They say it’s the thought that counts."

"So, is it true?" Freddie was taking her time producing her credit card. "That the Chesapeake Ripper set up some kind of Christmas scene in the bandstand?"

"You want this gift wrapped or what?"

"Come on, Graham. My office is right across the square. I know you're always the first one in. Did you see anything?" She leaned in with a grin, close enough for Will to see where she screwed up her eyeliner. "I hear he turned them into some kind of winged beast."

Will’s knees went soft. She shoved the book into a bag and handed it to Lounds. 

"Will, could I get you to do the coffees please? We have a customer waiting."

Alana's voice. Will felt momentary relief at being rescued from Lounds' company — and the images her words conjured — until she looked over the heads of the waiting customers, to the store's small coffee counter. 

Her heart sank. 

The doctor. That’s what everyone still called her, even though they all knew her name by now: that grand mouthful of a name, designed to be surrounded by titles and post-nominal letters, or to be carved into stone — a name nothing like Will’s own. 

She was standing near the windows, observing the activity in the square without any apparent emotion or interest — she might as well have been watching the snow fall. There wasn't a hair out of place on her sharp, slick coiffure, freshly tinted in shades Will would struggle to name. Her hands were folded neatly over the front of her dark wine-colored coat, an umbrella swinging like a pendulum from leather-gloved fingers. Poise and elegance in enough measure to make Will feel as if she hadn't showered in a week. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter. A pocket of improbable calm amidst the fear and bewilderment raging in Will's head. The doctor's calm beckoned her closer like a siren call. Her heart didn't know whether to slow down or quicken. 

"So." Beverly's nudge almost made Will jump. "Think today's the day?"

"What day?"

"Is the doctor finally gonna ask you out?"

"She'd be better off asking Alana," Will muttered. "They could go to the opera together."

"Alana isn't the one she's always making a beeline for. You're the only one she talks to every time she's in here." 

Beverly was right. Hannibal Lecter had been coming into Dante's Quill for well over a month now and still Will couldn't figure out why that immaculate presence always manifested itself at the coffee counter on the days when she happened to be working. Or why the doctor's espresso orders inevitably grew into brief but intense conversations that had Will revealing more of her thoughts than she'd ever intended.

The prospect of another one of those conversations didn't stop her from drifting down the aisles, past the morbidly curious throng, reeled in by the statue-still figure waiting by the coffee counter. 

"Good morning, Will."

Will didn't look up. It always took her a few minutes to work up to meeting Hannibal's uncompromising regard. In the meantime, she caught a glimpse of a paisley-patterned silk scarf and a whiff of familiar perfume: crisp, cold, expensive. 

"Hi. The usual?"

Hannibal inclined her head. "Please."

"We have a Christmas blend today. In case you wanted to try something different." 

"Do you think it will compliment the scene?" 

Will blinked up and followed the doctor's gaze out the window. "Not exactly a seasonal view out there," she muttered.

"Isn't it?" Hannibal lifted herself up smoothly onto one of the stools set next to the counter and began to peel out of her gloves. Her nails were shined, short, unpainted. "Squint and you could call the police lights festive and imagine the tent holds a Christmas market."

Will exhaled a nervous laugh. "I guess the season's in the eye of the beholder," she said. She tapped the grounds into the trash can a bit too loudly. 

"And what did you behold, I wonder?"

Will went still. Her grip on the portafilter tightened. "How— When?"

"This morning," Hannibal said. "I hope it wasn't too much of a shock." 

"What— what wasn't a shock?"

"Your usual pleasant view being turned into a crime scene."

Over the steam hiss of the coffee machine, Will tried to smooth over a fresh crest of panic with a few deep breaths. The cup rattled as she set it down on the saucer.

"It feels like I stepped into a story," she said at last, quietly. Even that much felt like an admission. If only she could admit to all the ways in which she meant it. "I guess that qualifies as shocking." 

Hannibal seemed to study Will's expression. Her own hadn't deviated from its inscrutable calm. "We're unsettled when we find ourselves transported into a new reality. Especially if we're unsure of the part we are to play within it."

Will slid the coffee cup onto the counter with only slightly steadier hands. "The part reveals itself through the actions we take."

"And the consequences that befall us."

Consequences. Yes, there were those, too. 

Hannibal gathered the handle of the coffee cup daintily between thumb and forefinger and brought it to her lips. Will had to stare at something, so she stared at those lips, wide and soft and only barely painted to a faint wet gloss.   
  
"It's still in there," Will said quietly, directly to those lips. 

"What is, Will?"

"The body. They haven't moved it."

Hannibal watched her over the rim of her cup. That scarf around her neck: Will could swear the gold paisleys painted onto it were moving, swimming like microscopic organisms in a pool of red silk. 

"Would it help you if they had?"she asked.

Will heard her voice go unsteady. "Help— help me? How?" 

"A sense of closure, perhaps. Of the story moving on." 

Will didn't answer. Over Hannibal's head, past rows and rows of shelves, she saw the store's front door swing open.

The man in the old fashioned hat walked in. And headed for Alana. 

"Are you all right, Will?"

Will heard Hannibal's voice as if through a dream. She wiped the counter absently with a towel. "Yeah, I'm—" 

Hannibal swivelled on her stool to follow Will's fixed stare. "Ah," she said. "There's Uncle Jack. I’m sure he's had a busy morning."

"He's one of the cops," Will managed. Her breath was all over the place. She was sure Hannibal could hear her heart thrashing about in her chest. 

"More than that," Hannibal said. "Jack heads up the Behavioral Science Unit.” She took a sip of her coffee. “A challenging part to play."

Will's towel swept down the counter and collided with Hannibal's coffee cup. The cup wobbled on the saucer and the coffee splashed out, narrowly avoiding Hannibal's coat. 

"God— sorry. Sorry." Will mumbled and reached for the cup. Before she could fetch it, Hannibal's hand came down to cover her own. 

Will froze. Her eyes met the doctor's and found them as unperturbed and steadying as ever. 

"Don't trouble yourself," Hannibal said softly. 

Will let out a shaking breath. There was no point in hiding her state anymore. Not with the FBI man now speaking to Alana. Not with Hannibal's warm hand covering Will's own. 

"This man. Jack. You know him."

"Jack Crawford. Yes, he's a friend. I've consulted for him on ocassion." Hannibal's hand squeezed gently at Will's. "You look pale, Will."

Will's eyes flicked between Hannibal's face, the frowning man in the hat, the hand covering her own. 

"He’s going to want to speak to us."

"Yes, almost certainly." Hannibal's eyes narrowed minutely. "When is your lunch break, Will?"

"Soon. But I—"

"Soon. Do you mean now?" The hand covering Will's hand gave a firmer squeeze. "You best go then. Perhaps out the back." 

"But—"

"But nothing. I'll speak to Jack. If you promise me one thing?"

Will could only nod. Anything. She'd have agreed to anything. 

Hannibal seemed to levitate from her stool as she leaned across the counter, eyes bright and locked on Will's. Will could smell that crisp perfume mingled now with fresh coffee. "Allow me to steal from you your lunch break," Hannibal murmured. "Walk with me in the snow. I want to hear more about this story you have found yourself in."

Will swallowed and nodded again, once. Actions, consequences. Jack Crawford and Alana were on the move, heading for the checkout counter, about to speak to Beverly.

"Where do you want... Should I meet you somewhere?"

"The square's southeastern corner. Next to the organic butcher's. Go, Will."

Their eyes met for a moment longer and then Will was hurrying off, no looking back. She'd untied her apron before she even reached the stock room, where she found her locker, grabbed her things and made for the back door. 

She was out. The winter air hit her like a wave of relief, or a false sense of freedom. She ran, zipping up her coat and pulling on her hat, to the far corner of the square where that morning, by the faintest light of dawn, she saw the soaring antler-winged angel with his red chest split open, empty of a heart. 


	2. Chapter 2

Will didn't have to wait long in the cold for Hannibal's elegant shape to appear from around the corner.

She was approaching in measured steps, umbrella shielding her immaculate coiffure from the flurries. For a moment, the dark red hue of her coat against white-swept streets took Will back to the early morning, to the blood, the angel, the snow. She had to look away.

Hannibal gave her a courteous nod.

"Nothing distracts quite like good food. What would you say to lunch at the Christmas market?"

"You mean the place by the museum?” Will had driven past it on her way from work, saw the headache-inducing lights and crowds. "Not sure I can handle funnel cakes and corn dogs right now," she said.

"How about a traditional blutwurst then?” Hannibal gave her a smile that bordered on conspiratorial. "Best outside Bavaria, I promise." She extended her umbrella over both their heads, a gesture that made Will feel oddly small. "You don't mind walking, do you? The snow is exceptionally picturesque today."

Will didn't mind. The market wasn’t far and she was in no state to think of alternatives to Hannibal's suggested blood sausage. They set off together, not a word between them. Hannibal seemed content to wait for Will to speak — or to get her overwrought brain together. That part at least seemed to be happening. The falling snow, the steady pace of their walk and Hannibal's unobtrusive silence settled Will's heartbeat for the first time that day. Or maybe it was the distance she was putting between the store, the cops and the scene in the square — and above all, the book.

"What you did back there," Will said finally, "In the store. You didn't have to do that."

Hannibal cleared a half-frozen puddle with a graceful sidestep. "What did I do exactly?"

"Make excuses for me."

"You have my word I did nothing of the sort."

"But then— what did you tell that guy? Crawford."

"Jack and I briefly discussed the unfortunate events outside the store while you made your escape," Hannibal said. "Excuses wouldn't have worked in any case, I'm afraid. You must know I've only helped delay the inevitable."

Will breathed in a shallow lungful of cold air and pulled her coat more tightly around her. Of course Hannibal was right. The FBI would find her sooner or later. She could tell them lies, but some camera or witness will almost certainly have seen her in the square. The inevitable questions would follow: _what made you do that? What do you know?_

"Most strangers wouldn't do that for someone," Will said. "Help them dodge the FBI."

"Are we strangers, Will? You've made my coffee several times a week for a few months now. And I have enjoyed our conversations."

"Sorry, I didn’t mean—" Will muttered. Her familiarity gauge was off again, but then again what else was new?

Hannibal laid a fleeting touch of reassurance on her shoulder. "No need for apologies. You want to know why I offered my help. Shall I tell you the answer?"

They stopped at a pedestrian crossing and Will met Hannibal's direct regard with a cautious glance. A snowflake had settled on her pale eyelashes. Her lipstick was the shade of cinnamon, with only a hint of gloss.

"Okay, fine," Will said on an exhale. "Why did you help me?"

"New bonds are best forged under unique circumstances. Today seemed like a particularly memorable opportunity to ask you out."

Despite the cold, Will felt heat creep into her cheeks. She watched Hannibal's breath steam as she uttered those last words. Will had the urge to touch the snowflake on Hannibal’s eyelashes. Wanting to stick her hands where they didn't belong — again. 

The light changed, but neither of them moved.

"A date," Will said quietly. "Is that what this is?"

"Only on your consent, of course," Hannibal murmured. "You must have known it was only a matter of time before the right moment arrived for us."

Will almost laughed. Despite Beverly's teasing, the possibility still had seemed so remote as to verge on ridiculous. She envisioned Hannibal coming in for her coffee, carrying on with their conversations, then one day simply disappearing forever. 

"I always thought you were more Alana's type," she said.

Hannibal’s eyes on her were very bright, almost unblinking. "And why is that?"

Will shook her head and stared down at her boots. Too many reasons to enumerate: Hannibal's bearing, clothes, obvious wealth. Hell, even her name. Will, meanwhile, was a cobbled-together mess that roughly approximated a human being. Even now, sheltered from the elements under Hannibal's umbrella, she felt like something brown and odd dragged out from under the snow. 

"You could have asked me any time," she said quietly, and meant it.

The light changed again and this time they crossed. They turned the corner and the market glittered before them: dense rows of snow-capped huts draped in lights lined the plaza in front of the museum. A towering tree, a Santa's grotto and a small carousel had been installed in their midst. Office workers and families were streaming in to take part in the indulgences and spectacles on offer. Will thought of the gawkers that had come to witness a different kind of spectacle outside of Dante's Quill. Thrill-seekers, all the same.

Music and people were everywhere, but Hannibal steered them past the worst of the bustle, towards a hut on the market's outskirts, near the museum steps.

The smell of seared meat made Will's stomach rumble. The moustachioed man inside the hut nodded in greeting and Will blinked in disbelief when she saw he was wearing actual lederhosen under his coat. 

Hannibal exchanged a few words with the man in German.

"You didn't ask," Will said on being handed a plate with a bread roll and a sausage. "I might be vegetarian."

"If you are, I would implore you to make an exception for Bernard’s wurst," Hannibal said. She fetched two steaming mugs from the hut owner's hands. “May I suggest glühwein to pair it with?" she said, as if for her own amusement.

They settled opposite each other at a wooden picnic bench next to the hut. Hannibal began to divide the first of her sausage with a plastic knife and fork and Will had to stare at the strangely incongruous sight for a moment before following suit. She took a bite, and then another before realising she was ravenous. It dawned on her that she hadn't eaten anything all morning. A few warming sips of the wine later, she was finally starting to think clearly.

"This guy Crawford," she asked. "You consult for him? A lot?"

"I have on several occasions, yes."

"I guess he told you what happened in the square?”

Hannibal watched Will for a moment while she chewed. "As things stand, Jack only knows what he has seen. He will know more soon enough. But at this juncture of events, I suspect you know far more than he does."

Will frowned. She tore a piece of crust from her bread roll and threw it to an opportunistic pigeon. "Yeah? And what makes you think that?"

Hannibal gave her a look that meant there was no point in being evasive. Will thought she’d try again anyway.

“Maybe I don’t know anything," she said. "Maybe I just don’t like talking to cops."

"Unpleasant past experiences?" Hannibal asked. "Teenage run-ins with the force?"

"No. Nothing like that. I just know what cops like. I tried to be one.”

Hannibal took a sip of her wine, the paper cup picking up a tidy imprint of her lipstick. "What happened, Will? Did the uniform not fit around your sensitivities?”

Will stared up at Hannibal, then down at her plate. The unexpected words bit into her like frost.

"Is it that obvious?” she said quietly.

“I only mean that you strike me as the sensitive type.”

"Too sensitive to be grilled by the FBI," Will muttered and sniffled against the cold. She could feel a fault line forming between her brows, the unease and dread rising up again. "Your friend Jack. Did he ask you to talk to me?”

Hannibal set down her utensils and pushed the plate aside. She leaned across the table, gloved hands braided before her. "Is it so hard to believe that I’m merely curious about what had you so anxious this morning?"

Curious. That was somehow worse. Because that meant Hannibal had already judged Will to be a curiosity, like so many others had done before her. And now, under the pretence of a date, Will was to be slowly pried open and made to confess to her strangeness. 

She stared at the puddle of diluted red juices seeping from the grilled meat onto her plate. She felt a wave of nausea. She remembered that morning: the darkness broken by the sparkling Christmas lights woven around the white iron lacework of the bandstand in the square. The trickle trail of blood in the snow. Will sinking to her knees beside it, peeling out of her gloves before touching the heavy cold thing before her. And in the bandstand, the floating angel, beckoning to her: _pick it up, put it back. Pick it up and put it back where it belongs._

She got up abruptly and started to walk off.

She elbowed her way through the crowds. She didn't look back, but she knew Hannibal was right behind her. All the terror and dread of that morning was turning to anger. She wanted to keep walking through the snow and never stop.

She got out of the market and made it as far as the top of the museum steps when a hand landed on her elbow.

"Will."

Will didn't look up. She jerked away from Hannibal's touch and leaned into one of the columns holding up the museum's facade, shoulders shrugged up to her ears. "If you're so curious about what I didn't want to tell the cops, you could have at least been honest with me."

"What have I been dishonest about?"

"The date thing. I know I'm out of your league. You don't need to bullshit me to get what you want."

Hannibal didn't reply. Will could feel her presence beside her — waiting, once more, for Will to get it together. By degrees, Will relented and turned to find Hannibal's eyes on her, as bright and wide as before. The rush of her pursuit had pulled a strand loose from her hair. It fell down over her cheekbone, a single silky strip. Will wanted to reach up and brush it back.

Hannibal leaned in and kissed her.

Will made a small noise of surprise. She sank back against the column for support, but Hannibal's gloved hands caught her by the arms, squeezing gently. The cold tips of their noses bumped, but Hannibal's lips were so warm. 

"That’s not another excuse, is it?" Will asked when they broke apart.

Hannibal smiled at her, a small and soft thing. The lights of the market shimmered and danced behind her. "I’ve wanted to do that for some time. Your place of work didn’t seem appropriate."

Hannibal’s lips had been soft, warm from the glühwein. Will stared at them and wondered how much of Hannibal’s lipstick she had kissed away. “You taste of sausage,” she muttered.

Hannibal raised a brief spiky grin and tucked a stray lock of hair back into Will’s hat. “So do you.”

Will swallowed and looked down between them. She’d been holding on to the lapels of Hannibal's wine-red coat. "You know what's in the square. In that tent."

Hannibal nodded. "Yes. Jack told me."

"Tell me."

"An angel,” Hannibal said, almost solemnly. “With wings made of antlers."

Will shuddered and shook her head. "Don't say that. Don't call it that. It's a body. Someone was murdered and cut up and strung up in that square. Made to look like an angel. And his chest..."

She stopped, out of breath. Had it been a man or a woman? She couldn’t remember. Was that part of the point? Weren’t angels sexless? Her mind was racing again, caught up in that bloody vision. She felt as if Hannibal's hands on her arms were the only thing holding her together.

"You saw it with your own eyes," Hannibal said quietly. "Tell me about it, Will."

Will still couldn't make herself look up and meet Hannibal's gaze. She spoke haltingly to the red hues of Hannibal's coat, to the swirling patterns on Hannibal's scented silk scarf. "I was due in early today. Before anyone else. Christmas stock delivery. I— I did something. I tampered with the crime scene.” She was out of breath again, shaking between Hannibal's sure and steady hands.

"If you fear the consequences—"

“Yes. No. It’s that. It's—" She squirmed away from Hannibal’s touch and put her face in her hands. She didn't know whether giving voice to the madness in her head would solidify it or disperse it. 

"I think the murder," she said finally, "had something to do with me."

Hannibal cupped a gloved hand about her cheek, "Will. If you feel you are in danger, the FBI can offer protection. You need only tell them what happened."

Will shook her head — Hannibal’s words had come as a surprise. No. She hadn’t felt she was in danger. Not for a moment. Deranged, enchanted, terrified, yes — but not in danger.

She put her hand over Hannibal's, holding the warmth of her touch to her face. "If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Crawford?”

Hannibal put her other hand to her chest and inclined her head — a solemn promise.

Will took in a deep breath. "Two weeks ago I was stacking some first editions when I found this book. This— small picture book."

Hannibal didn't say anything, didn't prompt her for more. She was waiting, yet again, for Will's courage to arrive.

"It looked old," Will said. "No author on the cover, no trace of it in our inventory. Couldn't even find anything about it online. It was in Italian. I— had to translate it."

Hannibal's fingers twitched faintly against Will's cheek. "Something about it must have intrigued you if you went to all that effort," she murmured.

"The pictures. It had all these beautiful illustrations, black and red ink with gilded frames. The last one—" She let out a shaking breath, its steam colliding with Hannibal's own breath. "It was the same as the bandstand. The angel. The wings. God."

She was still shaking, wasn't sure how much of it was the cold. She glanced up at Hannibal reluctantly, but Hannibal hadn't recoiled or looked at her strangely. She only leaned in, very close to Will's ear. 

"Would you tell me the story from the book, Will?" she asked softly. "I would very much like to hear it."

\---

> "Salvatore dell'Annunziata"
> 
> The Lord sent forth His favorite angel to bring to the Virgin news of great joy.
> 
> The angel flew as commanded, bright and glorious in the night heavens. It flew over mountains and seas, mistaken by those who glimpsed it for a shooting star. But when it reached the great dark wood, the angel was pursued.
> 
> For the Dark One had instructed his demons: the design of the Almighty Lord must not come to pass. The angel must not leave the wood to reach its aim. So the demons rose up in great multitude and although the angel was quick and light in its flight, it could not evade the dark army's tricks and snares. Soon it was swarmed by the Dark One's underlings, and though it wielded its holy sword well, the battle proved in vain.
> 
> "What shall we do with it?" asked a demon while the angel struggled in their bonds.
> 
> "Eat it!" cried one.
> 
> "Burn it!" cried another.
> 
> "No," said the third. "We must tear it to pieces and cast its parts about the darkest recesses of this wood so that it may never be found again."
> 
> The demons undertook their profane task swiftly, for the angel's luminous body burned their paws like shrapnels of starlight. Piece by piece, feathers, eyes, limbs, all were carried off and discarded about the forest floor.
> 
> The demons scattered and departed the wood, satisfied with their efforts. The angel and its mission lay in tatters. 
> 
> But the noble stags of the great dark wood, who had heard the angel's cries and bore witness to the demons' crime, soon gathered and held conference. 
> 
> "The angel of the Lord must soar once more," said the eldest of the stags. "In its mission lies salvation for all living creatures. We must collect its scattered body and make it whole again." 
> 
> The stags set about their quest. And though they soon found and bound the angel's body together, suspending it from the boughs of a great tree, they could not complete their work. For the wind that had carried off the demons had also swept up and scattered out of reach the countless luminous feathers of the angel's flight. None could be found.
> 
> And so the eldest stag commanded his fellows to cast off their antlers and weave from them new wings for the angel. And soon this was done. The antlers, mounted upon the angel's golden body, filled like drinking horns with brilliant light and shone in the dark heart of the forest.
> 
> It was then that the angel opened its great golden eyes. It beheld its animal benefactors, who upon seeing their work accomplished knelt their front legs in the snow. The angel flexed its newly made wings and spoke thus:
> 
> "For your toils and the gift of my wings, I thank you. Your work will be greatly rewarded. But I cannot soar for you have not given me back that which carries within it the great and bright love of the Almighty. I cannot soar. for you have failed to give me back my heart." 
> 
>   
> \---

"That’s where it stops," Will said. "Like there are pages missing."

Hannibal drew back, down one step from where they were standing, and peered up at Will. “The obvious theory is that the killer had read the same story as you. Perhaps the book belonged to them and they have left it at Dante's Quill, either by chance or by cunning."

“Yeah, I guess,” Will said weakly.

“But you don't think that.”

Will shook her head.

“You believe the book was meant for you.”

Will stared up at the snow-laden sky, hung above the sparkling spectacle of the market below. Her eyes felt heavy with tears. She felt suspended between heaven and earth. “Yeah. I do. And I don’t know why.”

"No,” Hannibal said. “But it is why this morning you picked up the heart you found in the snow and placed it back in the chest of Jack’s murder victim.”

Will’s breath froze in her lungs. She stared down at Hannibal. "How did you—" she managed.

"Jack Crawford knows the victim’s heart was removed and placed back in their chest. He assumes the killer tried to claim the heart as a trophy, then changed their mind and replaced it. The FBI will soon know otherwise."

"And I'll have to tell them the truth,” Will said.

Hannibal’s hands fell on her shoulders again. "Will. Shock can easily account for your actions. You won't be the first witness to extreme violence who briefly came away from her senses. Certainly not the first Jack will have met.”

"And the book?"

"Who says Jack has to know about the book?" Hannibal said. "Did you leave it where you found it?”

“Yes." Will bit at her lower lip while she weighed at her next words. "I don’t want them to have it.”

“Then it is yours,” Hannibal murmured — as if it were up to her. She kissed Will again and Will fell into it, lost like the angel in the great dark wood.

The kiss lingered. Behind her eyes, Will could see herself, hands cupped about the frozen heart, lifting it up into the angel’s hollow chest. Lights shimmered behind its antler wings. Nothing else existed, only Will and her place in the story.

"I don’t know why I did it," she said when she finally pulled away.

“But you knew you had to," Hannibal whispered.

“I had to finish the story. Put the angel back together.”

"Then the author owes you a debt."

"Why?"

"Perhaps she didn’t know how to finish it. Only you could have done so."

“Is the story finished?”

"It will be."

\---

Hannibal's words lingered in the back of Will's mind as they walked back together towards Dante's Quill. A short phone call from Hannibal later, Will was introduced to Jack Crawford. He handed her over to one of his agents, who took Will to Alana's office and asked Will a series of careful, gentle questions. She was given a number to call for trauma support, and assured she would not be detained. 

When she came out of Alana's office, Hannibal had already left.

Darkness fell outside. The light shone from the FBI tent, but the unmarked vans were departing one by one — the crime scene was being wound down.

Will served her last customer. On her way back to the staff room, when she was sure no one was watching, she veered into the Rare and Vintage section and checked the back of the top shelf. 

The book she had placed there was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue will follow soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a passing reference to a homophobic slur later on in this chapter.

The next few days saw Will wade into a numb fog. When she did manage to sleep, she dreamt of the book and the angel, of Hannibal's wine-warm kiss. It was easy enough—and easier—to tell herself she had dreamt it all in the first place. 

Most nights she startled awake, sheets fisted and heart pounding. She thought about calling the support line the cops had told her to call. But Will was used to dealing with things on her own. 

Hannibal, in any case, would not be back in the store or in Will's life anytime soon. Of this she was certain.

Christmas day came. Will spent it, as she had since her father's death, alone. She put on old Christmas movies to drown out the silence, grilled some fish and ended up feeding half of it to Winston. She ignored texts from Alana and Beverly. By the time the sun was setting, she'd slumped into bed with Winston, her laptop and a whiskey-spiked cider for company. 

She was half-way through "White Christmas" when she heard a knock. 

By the time she got to the door, her heart was pounding as hard as it had in her dreams. She peered outside. No one there. Only a courier van, already pulling out into the road. Will looked down and saw the plain brown paper package, crossed through with a tidy red ribbon. 

She knew what was inside. 

She picked up the package with trembling hands and took it to bed. She pulled off the delicate ribbon and then, carefully, the paper. 

The pages slipped past her fingers, the foreign words and gilded pictures beyond familiar — until they weren't. Past the last illustration of the suspended angel, Will found more pages, threaded into the book as if they had always been there. As if the story had always had its ending. 

She stayed up late that night, translating. With each passage that revealed itself to her, she moved closer and closer to the enchantment and terror she felt on that snowy morning in the square — and to a truth she would have to face. 

Dawn painted her windows red. Will tied the ribbon the book had been wrapped in around her wrist. She knew what she had to do. 

Dante's Quill re-opened that morning and Will was the first one in. Before anyone could catch her, she looked up Hannibal Lecter's address on the customer database and scribbled it down. Then she snuck out the back, same as she had on the day she found the angel. 

Half an hour later she was standing, trembling, before the soaring facade of a strange house. 

She held back the steam from her breath and knocked.

The door opened. Hannibal Lecter smiled at Will without surprise. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You finished it,” Will said. “You finished the book.”

“Now that you’re here,” Hannibal told her, “I should say we have finished it together.”

Will stared the soft curves of Hannibal's smile, breath stalled in her lungs. "I shouldn't be here. I should—turn you in."

Hannibal put out her hand and Will reached out to clasp it all at once and without thought. Hannibal peered down at the red ribbon coiled about her wrist. She stroked over skin and fabric with her thumb, then tugged Will across the threshold. 

Blind and shaking, Will went into her arms, into her warmth and the icy cloud of her perfume. 

A kiss brushed over Will’s temple. "Aren't you going to thank me for your Christmas gift?" Hannibal murmured against her hair.

"Which one?" Will mumbled into Hannibal's shoulder. "You gave me two.”

Hannibal breathed a soft laugh. "My Will. They were one and the same.”

The book and the angel. Both gifts laid at Will’s feet. And she took them. She accepted them both. 

The door shut behind them. More warmth engulfed Will. She could smell cooking: aromatics, seared meat. Breakfast. Had Hannibal really been waiting for her? 

She felt immobile, lodged in Hannibal's embrace. "Who were they?” she asked, still clinging close. "The angel. Will you tell me?”

“Does it matter? They were a device. A way to summon you to me.”

“I need to know.”

Hannibal drew back and led her by the hand deeper into the dimly lit opulence of her home. 

"Do you recall an incident at the store some weeks ago?” she asked. "A boorish man at the coffee counter?"

Will's heart went to her throat. She did remember: she'd messed up the man's coffee order, he'd muttered “dyke” under his breath, demanded to speak to Alana. Hannibal had been there, right behind the man, watching, waiting her turn. She'd said nothing about him to Will, neither of them did. 

At Will’s expression, Hannibal only smiled. "I dare say he was no angel.”

Will thought of her view from the bookshop: the picturesque square now forever imprinted with the red-dyed memory of Hannibal's gift. No normal person would go back to work there. But normal people didn't accept hearts of murder victims as tokens of courtship. 

"You turned him into one." Will had to steady herself against a wall before getting the next words out. "For me."

Hannibal was close again, touching her with those careful hands: hair, cheeks, the line of her jaw. "Don't think yourself unworthy of grand gestures, Will." 

Grand gestures. All for her. The dim hallway around Will spun gently. All of her was spiralling into something soft and dark. Hannibal's touch was holding her up while the floor dissolved beneath her feet. “Bonds forged under unique circumstances," she whispered. "Isn't that what you said?"

Hannibal inclined her head, soft lips once again spreading a small smile. "Do you know what I saw when I first glimpsed you rushing about in that absurd apron? A heroine, lost in her labyrinthine forest of books, in search of a story."

Will swayed forward and found herself with lips pressed to Hannibal's smile.

"I needed a story. So you let me stumble into yours."

"Now that you're here, will you stay? Will you find your part?"

Will kissed her again. It was answer enough. She knew she'd found her part, even if she was too terrified to give it a name. 

\---

> _"Salvatore dell'Annunziata — Part 2"_   
>    
> 
> 
> The stags sent scouts to the ends of the great dark wood. But alas, the angel's heart, cast out by the wickedness of demons, could not be found. 
> 
> With their search exhausted, the creatures returned to the angel and bowed their heads in sad defeat. They laid its gleaming sword at its feet and retreated back into the trees. 
> 
> The angel was alone, suspended and flightless. 
> 
> As it happened, a young girl crossing the wood in search of winter berries came upon a frozen brook. There, beneath ice clear as crystal, she glimpsed a strange red glow. The girl knelt down and splintered the ice with her foraging knife. The freezing waters parted and brought into view the angel's heart. 
> 
> Stricken with awe and wonder, the girl reached for the heart and drew it out of the stream. Soon the holy organ began to beat between her hands. Its rhythm urged her up, up and onward. 
> 
> Though it blinded her with its crimson glow and burned her hands with both heat and cold, the young girl followed the heart, winding deep into the wood until she came upon the angel of the Almighty. 
> 
> The angel's burning golden eyes turned to the girl, who fell to her knees before the empty-breasted messenger of the Lord. 
> 
> "You have found my heart. Return it to me now, child, so that I may complete my task. For doing so, you will have the gratitude of Heaven." 
> 
> Though she trembled with fear, the girl obeyed. She scaled the lowest branches of the tree that held the angel and placed the heart within its breast. Then she scurried down and away, and waited. 
> 
> The heart sounded once, heavy and hollow like a mighty drum. The angel flexed its antler wings and snapped all at once all the ties that held it. It sailed down to the snowy ground, which gleamed like a field of gold from the winged messenger's glory, and claimed his sword. Without a further word or glance, it soared up, up and away through the trees. 
> 
> When the angel vanished from view, the girl gazed down at her hands. They still burned her, hot and cold. The blood from the angel's heart had stained her palms with hues of crimson. 
> 
> The girl tried to clean her hands in the snow. She washed them in the icy waters of the woodland brook. She scrubbed them with soap and rag in the fountain of her small home town, until her skin felt raw. 
> 
> Nothing washed the angel's blood from the girl's hands. Not that day nor in any of the days that followed. 
> 
> Soon the townsfolk began to whisper about the girl with the blood-stained hands. Some demanded to see her marks. Others shouted that she had turned into a witch. 
> 
> The girl told no one of what had happened, for fear of being called a liar or a lunatic. Worse, she feared no one would believe that she alone had made an angel of the Lord soar into the sky. 
> 
> It was around the same time that a rumour arrived in the town: a woman had been visited by an angel, who had brought her tidings of great joy, a message of salvation. The girl asked people of the town what the message was, but none could give a straight answer.
> 
> "We will be immortal now!" some told her.
> 
> "This is the beginning of the end of all suffering!" others said.
> 
> "Who knows what the message was," said another. "Perhaps you should go speak to this woman yourself."
> 
> And so the girl with the blood-stained hands sought out the woman who'd been visited by the angel. 
> 
> The woman lived alone on the edge of town. She opened the door and regarded the girl with a smile. 
> 
> "Are you the one to whom the angel brought news of great joy?" the girl asked hopefully. Perhaps something in what the angel told the woman would help the girl cleanse the blood from her hands.
> 
> "I am," said the woman. "And you are the girl with the blood-stained hands."
> 
> Reluctantly, the girl turned up her palms and nodded. 
> 
> "Come inside and follow me," the woman said. 
> 
> The girl was led through the woman's house into her bedchamber. A strange golden glow seemed to fill the room, a glow the girl had seen once before — in the great dark wood. 
> 
> The woman knelt down and reached beneath her bed. What she drew out and held up made the girl gasp with fear and awe in equal measure. 
> 
> Not without effort, the woman lifted up the angel's sword. All the walls of her chamber gleamed gold. 
> 
> "How did you come to have this?" whispered the girl. "Was it given to you by the Lord's angel?"
> 
> The woman gave her a mysterious smile. "In a manner of speaking."
> 
> She sat down on her bed, laid the sword across her lap and began to speak. 
> 
> "The angel came to me and told me I was to be the Lord's vessel. I was to bring forth from myself suffering and death to rid the world of the same. In reply and as proof of the angel's sincerity, I asked to touch its sword. When it extended the blade to me, I seized it from its clasp and pointed it at the heart which glowed raw in its breast. I commanded it to leave, lest I thrust the blade in."
> 
> The girl gazed at this woman with wide and frightened eyes. "You refused the angel's commission? You threatened it? But why?"
> 
> The woman scoffed. "A rug salesman at my door offers more assurance for his wares than this rude intruding creature could muster for its prophecy. Even if its words were true, I do not wish to be so used. Let the Lord find another supplicating lamb. The world brims with them."
> 
> The girl was silent for a long moment. In the golden glow of the chamber, she could hear the quickening beat of her heart. After a while, she knelt down and took up the woman's hands in her own. She turned up the palms and found them raw and red-blistered from the angel's sword. 
> 
> "Have people in town mocked you for your hands, my girl?" asked the woman softly. "Have they called you names?"
> 
> The girl could not answer with words. But she placed kiss after kiss on the woman's blistered hands, then pressed them with her own, forever crimson-stained.
> 
> "Stay here with me here," said the woman with the angel's sword. "Let us live as two. And we'll wield this sword against forces that would use us for their own ends." 


End file.
